The prosecution lawyers are bustling in carrying their bundles. My lawyers smile and greet them politely. To me they feel like the enemy. People here to end what little is left of my life. Maybe the outcome of this trial makes little difference to me. My life is over anyway. Without my sister I do not have a life.
Three prosecution lawyers. A QC, a junior and a solicitor. I look across at them. So many people against me. What chance do I have against them? The silk, the one with a larger wig, looks a bit like Stephen Fry. Large and substantial. Not handsome but something commanding about him. Slightly pock-marked skin. Slightly bulbous nose.
I look across to the public gallery. I see my mother entering and settling on the front row. Her shoulders look rounded, in a way they never used to be, as if she is starting with osteoporosis. Weaker, thinner somehow. She turns around. As soon as she sees me her jawline sags. A shadow of an expression. I twist my lips into a ragged smile that is supposed to say, how has our life come to this? Mother replies with her eyes. Don’t worry, we’ll come through it. I know she is only just about holding it together. I weep inside.
The judge enters. The court stands and bows. A female judge. Bleached blonde hair sticking out from the front of her androgynous wig. She would be pretty if she didn’t have such ferret-like eyes. She is wearing bright poppy-red robes. Blood red, shrieking of authority.
Entrance formality over.
‘Bring in the jurors,’ she requests.
A court clerk scurries off to fetch them, head bowed in respect. After a while they come in, one by one, jaded already, overwhelmed by procedure, unsure of themselves, aware they are being watched by lawyers and the public. Twenty-four people on jury service, waiting to be called.
I drink in these people on whom my life depends. Thirteen women. Eleven men. Two look as if they are over forty. One black, two Asian. Everyone else white. No one particularly smartly dressed. A Sikh man wearing a turban and round glasses. A young white man with a heavy brown beard. A man with a beer belly so large he could be about to produce twins. A woman wearing fuchsia lipstick which clashes with her dress. A woman with silky lashes and a gouged earlobe. She’s the prettiest. Pity she’s stretched her earlobe so much. Three people so seriously overweight they can hardly walk. They all hover close to the door they entered through, which is to the right of the dock. To the right of the court at the opposite side to the entrance for the lawyers and the public.
A clerk of the court draws twelve names at random and one by one my jury take their seats. One by one I take note of them. One by one I try not to stare at them. One by one they take a sideways glance at me. The three seriously overweight are picked. They all sit next to each other. The Sikh man with the turban. A bald man. A bearded man. The girl with the lashes and the earlobe. A girl who looks a bit like a pixie. Short hair. Big eyes. Big pointed ears. A middle-aged woman with curly hair. A cross-dresser. A man in a lumberjack shirt with greasy hair. A young man with foppish blond hair – a Hugh Grant in his heyday look about him as he pushes his hair from his eyes.
They take their oaths individually. I watch anxiously, analysing the timbre of every voice. But the only voice I really hear is yours, Zara, saying, ‘I’m going to fucking kill you, you bitch.’
Zara: it worked. You fucking did.
133
In court again. Court dominates my life. A respite from prison. Or is it? I suppose it is a window to the world for a while. More colour, more variety than my usual cell. I cannot complain of being bored. But the fact that so much hangs on every word spoken, the heavy sense that this may be my last glimpse of the world for a long time, does not make me feel relaxed. It makes me feel clinging-at-straws desperate, constantly suppressing a panic attack.
I see the public come and go, not always sure who they are, or why they chose to come. Are they law students? Journalists? I envy them their freedom from the bottom of my heart. I envy everyone. Every clerk, every solicitor, everyone – even those who just seem to do the photocopying.
The Stephen Fry lookalike, aka the prosecution barrister, Paul Early-Smith, is opening my case, standing to address the jury. He coughs. His wig slips a little to the right of his head. He pushes it back.
‘Miranda Cunningham, a thirty-year-old accountant from Bristol, is charged with the murder of her sister.’ He pauses. ‘Zara Cunningham.’ His voice is overeducated. He punches his words into the air with force. ‘She is pleading not guilty,’ he continues. ‘Her defence is self-defence.’ He stands facing the jury and opens his arms, wide, like a bird’s wings. ‘Let me outline the prosecution’s case.’ He pauses to look down at his notes. He adjusts the angle of his glasses.
‘The evidence will show that Miranda Cunningham has serious mental health issues.’ I stiffen inside. How dare he say this? ‘She became besotted with her sister’s boyfriend, Sebastian Templeton, fixated by him in fact to the point of infatuation.’
I was told he was going to say this, but hearing the words actually spoken in court in front of the jury is too much.
‘She pestered him for sex so frequently that Sebastian Templeton decided, perhaps unwisely, to acquiesce, in the hope she would then leave him alone. I say, perhaps unwisely, because Sebastian was deeply in love with Zara.’
The words float away from me and I am back, lying on the bed, head pushed into a pillow. He is entering me. He is hurting me. I am crying with the pain.
Mr Early-Smith takes a long melodramatic pause, where he stretches his neck and lifts his bulbous nose in the air. ‘But Sebastian’s desperate attempt to get Miranda to leave him alone didn’t work. It made her behaviour worse. After their one-time sexual liaison, Miranda became even more besotted with him, and proceeded to murder her sister with a bread knife in the desperate hope that she could then have him to herself.’
I sit shaking my head, tears rolling down my face.
134
Pre-court briefing. Sitting in the meeting room opposite Theo. He briefs me first thing in the morning before court starts, as soon as the morning session is over, and as soon as the afternoon one finishes.
‘Sebastian is being called as a witness today,’ he says.
Suddenly I think I might vomit. I put my head between my legs, hand over my mouth, and retch, but nothing comes out. He leans across and puts his arm across my back. Slowly, slowly, I lift up my head.
‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’ I ask.
‘We didn’t know. The prosecution found him hard to track down. He’s been living abroad apparently.’
‘I wanted to explain. To ask him to forgive me.’ I pause. ‘Maybe if he was abroad, that explains why he didn’t visit me, when I asked.’
Theo’s eyes darken. His face softens, as if he feels sorry for me. ‘Maybe,’ he replies.
‘Why are they calling him?’ I ask.
‘Give you three guesses.’
‘To discredit me of course.’
A headache is beginning to crack along my jawbone and pulsate against my temples.
‘What will he say?’ I ask.
‘Whatever lies first come into his head I should think.’ He pauses. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ve got plenty of good witnesses who are going to be very helpful. Whatever Sebastian says today, by the end of the case he’s going to end up discredited – not you. It’s not just going to be your word against his.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Trust me, Miranda.’
‘I do, Theo. It’s just I sometimes worry, is trust enough?’ I pause. I bite my lip. ‘I’ve always felt happier with knowledge.’
I feel empty inside. He squeezes my hand.
‘Trusting me is enough, I can assure you. I’ve got to go now. See you in court.’
The guard takes me back to the dock. Court is gathering. The usual. Lawyers and clerks arriving, the public slipping in. My mother is here every day, woebegone in the front row. The sight of her looking so broken is tearing me apart.
My heart lurches. Sebastian is here, bei
ng escorted by a clerk to sit on a bench near the witness box, to wait to be called. I have not seen him since he burnt me with his acid eyes at your funeral, Zara. The sound of his voice haunts me.
‘Miranda Cunningham, I can bear anything for you. I love it when you beg.’
The fist that grabs my heart all too often tightens. Pins and needles stab down my left arm. I am sweating; sweat pours off me like a waterfall. He is looking at me from the other side of the courtroom with empty hollow eyes, as if I’m not here. Looking straight through me, as if I’m invisible. He has lost weight. His craggy face is craggier than ever. His hair is shorter, more conventionally cut. Why did you tell her, Sebastian? What’s wrong with you? What do you want? What did you ever want?
The judge enters the courtroom and all eyes turn towards her. Theo turns to check on me, as he rises to stand. My eyes meet his.
‘OK?’ he mouths.
‘OK,’ I mouth back, as I rise and bow to the judge, even though I am not OK. The judge calls for the jury who are brought in. They sidle in looking bored and despondent. No one even looks across at me. That’s good. I don’t want them to. I don’t want them analysing my inner conflict. When they have settled in their seats, the session starts.
‘Good morning,’ the judge says in a headmistress tone. Jovial. Assertive. ‘Today we begin with witnesses for the prosecution.’ There is a pause. ‘Mr Early-Smith, please proceed.’
Paul Early-Smith aka Stephen Fry lookalike stands up. Slowly. Grandly. Adjusting his robes around his body. Right hand clinging to a few notes.
‘Sebastian Templeton please.’
Sebastian stands, eyes towards the judge now, and the clerk of court leads him to the witness box. The clerk of court hands him a Bible. He puts his hands on the Bible and swears: ‘I swear by Almighty God that the evidence that I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.’
Does Sebastian even know what truth is?
I close my eyes. A kaleidoscope of coloured shapes spins in front of me. Even though I am sitting down I feel dizzy. I put my hands on the bar in front of me to steady myself. When I open my eyes again the room is swaying gently, like a ship at sea. Theo turns around again. His runny honey eyes push into mine. Runny honey eyes to push Sebastian’s eyes away. But I can’t push his eyes away today. I have to look at him and listen.
‘Please explain to the court how Miranda was sexually harassing you,’ Paul Early-Smith asks.
Sebastian smiles sadly. As if his life is a torment.
‘She wouldn’t leave me alone. Always sitting too close to me. Putting her hand on the top of my leg.’
‘Did she ever attempt to kiss you prior to the night you had sex?’
‘Yes. She tried to kiss me on a number of occasions. At the Christmas party we held in her flat. On New Year’s Eve. Several other times I think. So often that I can’t remember all the details.’
I am so angry. Solid with anger. How can this be? How can he be allowed to stand there and lie? I shake my head in disbelief. He is describing exactly what he did to me.
‘How did you respond?’
‘I pushed her away. I tried to explain that I was in love with her sister and I didn’t want to mess around, but she was infatuated with me and wouldn’t listen.’ He pauses for breath. ‘After that her behaviour became worse.’
Early-Smith flaps his robes and opens his arms a little. ‘Tell me, Sebastian, what happened the night you had sex?’
Now I wish I was anywhere but here.
‘I think she put MDMA in my drink.’
I breathe in so sharply, my breath makes a sound. The barristers, the solicitors, the officers of the court are all turning to look at me. So far Sebastian has been turning everything around – making out I did to him what in reality he did to me. I am so shocked. MDMA. Is that what happened? Did he put MDMA in my drink? That would explain why I felt so weird when I’d only had one G&T. Why I suddenly wanted to go to bed with him – it must have softened me up, made me feel compliant. It would explain everything. And I have been tormented by guilt for sleeping with him.
Zara, how did you fall in love with this deceitful lying bastard? How did I ever let him live in our flat?
‘What makes you think she might have put MDMA in your drink?’ Paul Early-Smith asks.
‘She was at the bar for a long time. And my drink tasted a little funny.’ He pauses and looks straight across at me. ‘And I so didn’t find her attractive. Never have.’ He is looking straight at me. I pull my eyes from his and look at the floor. ‘I reckon she must have used something to lighten my mood, otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to get it up,’ he continues. ‘I didn’t even want to go and have a drink with her. My girlfriend Zara was keen to try and push us together, for us to be friends. I only went for a drink with Miranda to please Zara.’
Paul Early-Smith clears his throat. ‘Let’s move on to the seduction.’
Seduction. My blood boils.
‘She came on to me as soon as we got back to the flat, after our drink. And because of the MDMA I managed to make myself shag her.’ He laughs. His Joker in an old Batman film, corny laugh. ‘She wasn’t the sort of girl who usually gave me an erection, so I had to fantasise that I was doing it with someone else.’ A dramatic pause. ‘I made myself do it. I thought if I shagged her she might be satisfied she’d had me once and then she’d leave me alone.’
‘But it didn’t work like that did it?’ Early-Smith asks looking smug. ‘Can you confirm that she requested intercourse again in the morning?’
Sebastian smirks. ‘Yes. She was really hot for it. Rampant.’
I am so embarrassed. So angry. I feel hot, and I know I am blushing. I daren’t look across at the jury to see how they are reacting. I keep my eyes on Sebastian. I can’t believe what he is saying. What is the matter with him? Why does he hate me so much?
‘And she carried on pestering you behind her sister’s back for months and months, didn’t she? Could you give us a few examples?’ Early-Smith continues.
Sebastian continues to spout nonsense about my alleged behaviour. My mind closes down. I am no longer listening. I sit looking at my feet. At the flat leather pumps I wear to court every day. I need to polish them tonight. When I manage to look up and re-engage, Mr Early-Smith has finished his questioning. He is sitting down looking inordinately pleased with himself. I dare to take a quick glance across at the jury now. They are sitting expressionless. Straight-backed. Straight-faced. Waiting for Ms Little to start cross-examining.
She is standing up. Bandbox as usual. Immaculate blow-dried hair shining out from beneath her wig which she adjusts a little before she starts.
‘Mr Templeton, we’ve all read your statement, and listened to your evidence.’
I haven’t read his statement. I flick through the file in front of me nervously. It must have been added late last night. I find it attached with a paperclip at the front. The words on the page merge together and swim in front of me.
‘I’ve just got a few questions arising from what you have said, before we move on to CCTV evidence.’ She pauses. ‘If Miranda had to spike your drink with MDMA for you to be willing to have sex with her, how did you manage to have intercourse with her in the morning when the effects of the drug had worn off?’
Sebastian doesn’t look so cocky now. His eyes dart a little from side to side. He looks flummoxed. He doesn’t reply.
‘Please answer the question,’ the judge says, in a sharp voice.
‘I just made myself. I had to do something to stop her pestering me. I thought if I gave it to her twice, she would stop pestering me.’
‘But Mr Templeton, you specifically said under oath that you didn’t think you would have been able to “get it up” for sex with Miranda Cunningham without “help”, and that is why you think she put MDMA in your drink. So I repeat the question, if that is the case, how did you manage to have sex a second time?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Is
it possible that you were not under duress at all, and you’re not telling the truth?’
‘I’m under oath so of course I’m telling the truth.’
‘The facts don’t add up, Mr Templeton.’
‘She was pestering me. I had to do it.’
‘So moving on then,’ Ms Little continues. ‘Can you explain in what way she was pestering you?’
‘I have already explained.’
‘Let’s just run through it again.’
‘She fancied me like mad. Whenever Zara wasn’t around she was sitting next to me on the sofa, putting her hand on the top of my thighs. Following me to work, making sure she was sitting close to me.’
‘Mr Templeton, let’s look at some CCTV.’
Ms Little presses the controller in her hand and a screen lights up in the corner of the court, to the left of the witness box. The picture is clear and sharp. It shows the middle section of our desk at work. CCTV? At work? I never knew they were filming us – 9:30 a.m, according to the timer on the right side of the screen.
I walk across the screen, sit in my usual seat, switch on my computer screen and start to work. She fast-forwards all the empty sections. One by one a few other people join me. At 10:30, Sebastian saunters into the office and sits next to me. He folds his arms and legs and sits, not working, staring straight at me.
‘Like this do you mean, Mr Templeton?’ Ms Little QC asks.
‘Ms Little, I can assure you that’s a one-off. Is that all you can find for your files?’ Sebastian replies.
‘I have a few more recordings at a high enough standard to be shown in court,’ she says with a smile. ‘Let’s get on with the next one shall we.’ She presses the controller again. Once again the screen lights up.
‘Did you know there was CCTV on Park Street?’ Ms Little asks.
Sebastian doesn’t reply; he is too busy looking at the screen.
This time, I am rushing up Park Street. Sebastian is also rushing up Park Street, behind me. He breaks from a fast walk into a jog, looking towards me all the time. He catches up and puts his hand on my shoulder. My body jumps, as if him catching up with me wasn’t what I was expecting.
Guilt Page 21